Till Death Do Us Join
by Demented Amanuensis
Summary: Written shortly after Deathly Hallows came out, in an attempt to free Hermione from the clutches of her marriage to Ron. Lucius Malfoy has a strange visitor who offers to spare Lucius's life if he marries Hermione. Problem: She already is married...
1. Chapter 1

TILL DEATH DO US JOIN

Lucius Malfoy deemed himself a very lucky man indeed.

For what else might a man be called, or call himself, but lucky, when what he saw in the mirror was an immaculately attired, attractive wizard with long blond hair, sixty-five years of age, wealthy, healthy, and single.

Being single and still wealthy was due less to luck than to a herd of lawyers, who were as crafty and cunning as they were well-paid. Lucius had to admit that being left for Kingsley Shacklebolt had smarted a bit, even though he was aware that the position of Minister for Magic did lend the man a certain glamour, which more shallow witches obviously found irresistible. But that dent in his self-esteem had been nicely repaired by a fortune that was diminished only by a small allowance he had to pay every month to his ex-wife.

His less than fanatically pro-Voldemort attitude after being set free from Azkaban, and his more than enthusiastic support of the New Order of Things after the battle of Hogwarts had made it possible for Lucius to gradually regain the social standing and prestige befitting a Malfoy. He had the Minister's ear (a relatively small but important body part in exchange for a whole ex-wife), he was again one of Hogwarts' School Governors, and a series of well-placed investments had ensured that no important political or economical decisions be made without consulting him.

Draco had married and given him a grandson. Scorpius had just started his second year of schooling at Hogwarts, after spending his summer holidays at the Manor. Following a time-honed family tradition, Lucius was taking an active part in the boy's upbringing. His own father's untimely death had robbed Draco of the benefit of a grandfather's hand guiding him where his parents had failed to do so, and this lack of a benevolent but more objective supervision hadn't done the boy any good. The youngest Malfoy, however, was going to profit from the lessons his father and grandfather had had to learn the hard way.

Much as Lucius had enjoyed Scorpius' company, having the Manor all to himself again wasn't bad either. He had every intention to make the most of his recently reacquired state as a bachelor, and an eligible one at that. But so long as there was a child in the house, there were certain limitations he had to impose on himself. Now, however, he was free to enjoy himself.

Lucius gave his reflection in the mirror a last contented smile and left his dressing room to treat himself to the pleasures of a full English breakfast.

The mornings had been quite chilly for some time; it was already September, after all. The House Elves had left the French doors leading onto the terrace wide open, and Lucius felt his feet grow cold when he sat down at the table.

'Close the doors immediately,' he snapped at the nearest elf, marking the importance of his request by a nonchalant kick. 'Or do you want me to catch my death?'

ERM, said a voice from somewhere behind him, THAT SEEMS TO BE A COMMON MISUNDERSTANDING. USUALLY IT'S THE OTHER WAY ROUND, YOU KNOW?

Lucius whirled round, but couldn't see anything.

I'M HERE, RIGHT BEHIND YOU, BUT YOU CAN'T SEE ME, I'M AFRAID.

'What… Who are you?'

THREE GUESSES, the voice said, and chuckled.

That chuckle sent a cold shudder down Lucius's spine. 'But… That can't…' He noticed that he was spluttering, and tried to regain control of himself and the situation, although he wasn't quite sure about the latter. 'Look,' he said. 'This has to be a misunderstanding. I'm only sixty-five, barely past my prime, and I don't quite see how-'

I'M NOT THAT PREDICTABLE, Death said, a little miffed. SOMETIMES I DO COME UNEXPECTEDLY, NOT THAT I LIKE IT, MIND YOU, BECAUSE PEOPLE ALWAYS DEMAND THE MOST TEDIOUS EXPLANATIONS.

'But… But why?'

JUST AS I SAID. WHY CAN'T PEOPLE BE A BIT MORE REASONABLE? I MERELY DO WHAT I HAVE TO DO, BUT I CAN'T TELL YOU WHY.

Lucius felt panic overcome him slowly but inexorably. 'I don't want to die. Not now. There's a lot of things I still want to do. Can't we… strike some sort of bargain?'

THAT'S A VERY COMMON REQUEST, Death said pensively, AND SOMETIMES I DO AGREE TO IT. I MUST SAY THOUGH, I'M NOT REALLY INCLINED TO STRIKE A BARGAIN WITH A MORTAL WHO SEEMED TO THINK HE COULD EAT ME.

Lucius winced. 'That, uh, was a trifle tactless, I admit. Though I would like to point out that I didn't come up with that name.'

THAT WAS RIDDLE, I KNOW. EXCEEDINGLY UNPLEASANT FELLOW. I TRIED TO TALK TO HIM AFTER I CAME FOR HIM, BUT HE MERELY TURNED HIS BACK ON ME AND STALKED OFF.

'Well,' Lucius said, beginning to be drawn into the conversation despite himself, 'he must have been terribly disappointed.'

THAT IS NO EXCUSE FOR SUCH A BLATANT LACK OF MANNERS, IN MY OPINION.

'I agree. Good manners always ought to be observed.' Lucius shrugged. 'He was terribly bad ton, if you know what I mean. Brought up in a Muggle orphanage, what can you expect?'

MAYBE YOU'RE WILLING TO ENLIGHTEN ME. WHAT DID THAT MAN MEAN TO ACHIEVE?

'World domination, for one. And he meant to get rid of all Muggleborn wizards. And witches of course.'

THEN WHY DIDN'T HE CALL HIS FOLLOWERS SOMETHING LIKE "THE PUREBLOOD SUPREMACIST SOCIETY"?

'He always had this penchant for cheap drama. He thought that "Death Eaters" had more flair to it. Just like the uniforms he made us wear – of course he never put on one of those horrible masks, but we had to dress up whenever there was a meeting. Try to breathe under a Death Eater's mask, let alone talk. Not to mention what the hood did to one's hair.'

Death snorted. 'YOU AMUSE ME, LUCIUS MALFOY. MAYBE… MAYBE I'LL AGREE TO A BARGAIN AFTER ALL.'

'I would be delighted. I have to admit, though, that I cannot think of anything I might possibly offer you.'

YES, THAT'S A DIFFICULT ONE, ISN'T IT?

'Well, yes. Certainly more difficult than with mortals.' Lucius cleared his throat. 'Maybe you would be kind enough to, uh, suggest something?'

YOU WILL HAVE TO ANSWER A FEW QUESTIONS FIRST. TELL ME, LUCIUS MALFOY, DO YOU STILL BELIEVE THAT PUREBLOODED WIZARDS ARE BETTER THAN MUGGLEBORNS?

'That,' Lucius said cautiously, 'would of course depend on the individual we are talking-'

NO GAMES, LUCIUS MALFOY. NOT WITH ME.

Grinding his teeth, Lucius bit out, 'Yes, I do.'

AH. SO YOU WOULDN'T CONSIDER EVER BEING FRIENDS WITH A MUGGLEBORN WIZARD?

'I…' Lucius sighed. 'I wouldn't completely exclude the possibility, although it does seem improbable.'

UH-HUH. WHAT ABOUT MARRYING A MUGGLEBORN WITCH?

Lucius shook his head. 'No. I would never, ever consider marrying a Muggleborn witch.'

EVEN IF SHE WERE CLEVER AND PRETTY?

'No. Impossible.'

WELL, Death said, HERE'S MY SUGGESTION FOR OUR BARGAIN, THEN: I SHALL COME BACK TO VISIT YOU EXACTLY ONE YEAR FROM NOW. IF BY THEN YOU ARE MARRIED TO ONE HERMIONE WEASLEY, WHO, AS I UNDERSTAND, IS A VERY CLEVER AND QUITE PRETTY YOUNG MUGGLEBORN WITCH, YOU SHALL LIVE TILL YOUR ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY-THIRD BIRTHDAY. IF YOU ARE STILL UNMARRIED OR MARRIED TO SOMEBODY ELSE, YOU SHALL COME WITH ME. NO CHEATING, THOUGH. YOU WON'T BE ALLOWED TO DIVORCE HER.

'Weasley? You mean Hermione Weasley née Granger?' Lucius threw up his hands in exasperation. 'But she's married, and that's only a minor obstacle, compared to my unwillingness-'

YOU'RE WELCOME TO ACCOMPANY ME RIGHT NOW, OF COURSE.

'No!' Lucius shouted, 'No, I don't want to – All right. I agree to the deal.'

DOING BUSINESS WITH YOU IS A PLEASURE, LUCIUS MALFOY. BY THE WAY, DO YOU LIKE CATS?'

Completely baffled, Lucius tried to figure out whether this was a trap. 'I do like cats, yes,' he finally said.

EXCELLENT. I FOUND THIS – a yellowish, mewling fur ball materialized under Lucius's nose – AND WOULD LIKE TO ENTRUST IT TO YOUR CARE. IT IS RATHER BIG FOR A KITTEN.

'It's a Kneazle,' Lucius said.

I SEE. ONE LIVES TO LEARN, ALTHOUGH IN MY CASE THE VERB ISN'T QUITE CORRECT. SHE WANTS TO BE CALLED VANILLA.

'Vanilla,' Lucius repeated tonelessly. But no one answered. Death had left, and he was sitting at the breakfast table, watching his new pet make quick work of his scrambled eggs, and trying to come to terms with what he'd just agreed to.

oooooo

Being in love with a married woman was enough to drive a man to drink or, if Goethe's Young Werther was to be believed, shoot himself. Lucius, however, was facing a worse problem. He had to successfully seduce a married woman, whom he didn't even know, unless you counted the exchange of a few hexes twenty-five years ago and having to watch her, two years later, being tortured by his mad sister-in-law.

Lucius had never been the kind of wizard who got off on screams of pain and pleas for mercy and, unlike many of his peers, he didn't fancy young girls. He therefore decided that the first thing he had to do in order to be successful was get rid of the mental image of a wild-haired, grimy, flat-chested seventeen-year old witch writhing on his priceless Aubusson rug.

Instead of drinking himself into a coma or purchasing a Muggle firearm, Lucius therefore dedicated his considerable plotting skills to devising a plan. He had to meet Hermione Weasley in person and thus kill two birds with one stone: Seeing her face to face would supplant the memory of a skinny teenager with something more up to date and – hopefully – more alluring, and it would also provide the opportunity for him to test the waters.

He knew, of course, that she was Deputy Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, bound to be promoted to Head as soon as her boss went into retirement. But even as second in command, Hermione Weasley wasn't the kind of Ministry employee whom you met without previously making an appointment. And to make an appointment, you needed a reason. A good reason, if you wanted to talk to Hermione Weasley.

Now there was any number of motives for MLE to still want to talk to him, or for the Aurors to perform the occasional, albeit never successful, raid on his home, preferably during the holidays, when his grandson was with him. This, however, was precisely the reason why the reverse scenario, i.e. Lucius seeking out the Deputy Head of MLE, lacked credibility.

Eyeing the brandy carafe with a doleful look, Lucius withstood the temptation to indulge in a midmorning alcohol binge and tried to concentrate on the problem at hand. His attempt was thwarted by a House Elf Apparating into the library with a loud crack. Its skinny arms stretched out as far as possible, the elf tried to prevent the hissing fur ball it was holding in spindly fingers from swiping at its eyes. Usually Lucius would have punished the elf for disturbing his thought processes, but since Vanilla the Kneazle kitten was doing a sterling job of terrifying the elf, he merely leaned back and watched.

'Master,' the elf squeaked, 'Master, I begs your pardon, Master, but I finds the kitten in the kitchen, and it is eating all the Beluga caviar, Master.'

A lazy Accio later, Vanilla was sitting on her wizard's lap, purring contentedly and giving off a strong aroma of fish, and the elf had been sent off to the kitchens to eat twenty jalapeno peppers. A most lenient punishment, Lucius thought, shaking his head at his own indulgence. But he'd had an idea, and the blinding flash of inspiration had momentarily hampered his usual inventiveness when it came to devising methods of elf castigation.

oooooo

Hermione Weasley closed her office door with a well-aimed kick and smiled to herself when the loud thud of wood against wood made the stacks of files on her desk wobble.

She hated early-morning meetings, especially those that started before nine a.m. Contrary to popular opinion, she'd never been a morning person, and she had absolutely no idea why so many people – her husband among them – still believed that talking to her before she'd been out of bed for at least two hours was a good idea. At least there had been coffee today. Ministry-made, meeting coffee, for all it was worth.

A swish of her wand switched on the espresso machine sitting on a small table next to her desk. It was a Muggle device she'd charmed to work in magical surroundings. It usually produced excellent coffee, except for those days when there was a disturbance in the magical field, caused by solar wind. On such occasions the machine had been known to cough out matchboxes that sang O Sole Mio, talking mice and, only once, pralines filled with Irish Coffee. Thanking the deities that today was a disturbance-free day, at least as far as the magical field was concerned, Hermione made herself a double espresso and settled into her chair. While she inhaled the aroma and took a first, blissful sip of the black brew, she mentally went through her To-Do list.

The meeting with Shacklebolt and the Head of Mysteries was thankfully over. Next on the list was – Who? Lucius Malfoy? What could the man possibly want? Maybe he meant to complain about the raids Ron still insisted on performing every once in a while? Not that Hermione could blame him. If somebody else had repeatedly broken into Malfoy's house, without a search warrant and followed by the most clumsy, heavy-handed troupe the Auror department could possibly put together, they would probably have been transferred to Accounting. Not so Ron, the war hero. The Aurors responded solely to the Minister, and Shacklebolt had given his redheaded star Auror more than one stern dressing-down, but there was no way even Shacklebolt could demote Ron Weasley for inconveniencing a former Death Eater. Hermione considered this a severe abuse of his privileges and had repeatedly told her husband so, but he'd scarcely paid attention to her and merely stated that Malfoy only got what was coming to him.

Hermione finished her coffee and decided that there was time for another cup. While the machine was gurgling and spluttering, she pondered what she was going to say to Malfoy. She was responsible only for the MLE, not the Aurors, so the most she could do was drop another hint to Shacklebolt. Of course Malfoy wouldn't want to seek out the Minister – lodging a complaint with the man who'd married his wife not six months ago would be more than awkward.

She'd rehearsed a polite, noncommittal answer by the time her secretary's disembodied voice announced Lucius Malfoy through the magical intercom. 'Thank you, Mathilda,' she spoke into the flowerpot labelled "Interc. Secr.", 'and please make a call to maintenance. There's this strange mewling noise in the intercom, tell them to check it.'

'That…' Mathilda cleared her throat. 'That won't be necessary, ma'am.'

Hermione frowned; she could have sworn that her secretary was trying hard not to laugh. 'Are you sure?'

'Quite sure, ma'am. Would you like to see Mr Malfoy now?'

Sighing, Hermione said, 'Yes, please. Send him in.'

oooooo

Although Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy had stopped sharing a bedroom some five years into their marriage and had, even before they started to sleep separately, never even thought of using the same bathroom, Narcissa had always disapproved of her husband spending at least an hour on his morning toilette. The two hours he'd lingered today would probably have driven her to nag him for the same amount of time, if they were still married, he thought.

Lucius knew everything about the importance of first impressions.

He and Hermione Weasley hadn't set eyes on each other for almost twenty years, and hence she probably remembered him as she'd last seen him. Not the most favourable of recollections, he was sure. A year spent in Azkaban, followed by ten months as a virtual prisoner in his own home, with Voldemort and Bellatrix as the most undesired guests in history since Paris had visited king Menelaus, had done nothing for his outward appearance. He still shuddered when he remembered the waxen complexion, hollow eyes and dull hair he'd seen in the mirror back then. Although not sure whether the then-Miss Granger had had any attention to spare for his looks during her sojourn at the Manor and the battle of Hogwarts, Lucius nevertheless wanted her to perceive him in a wholly new light.

He knew that he was good-looking. Looks never were a problem. But there was more to a first impression than a handsome face and a perfect body. It was the subtext that counted, and Lucius had had too many affairs to be ignorant of the importance of the subtext. Madam Weasley was a married woman who, to the best of his – or rather Rita Skeeter's – knowledge, had never had an affair in all her eighteen years of marriage. If he wanted to live another seventy-eight years, he would have to seduce her, sooner rather than later. That meant that he had to look his best, but without being overwhelming. So he chose robes in subdued shades of grey – maybe a bit boring, but less dangerous-looking than black and most of all the colour of respectability – and gathered his hair in a loose ponytail. Just the right compromise between wearing it open and pulling it back severely, as he did for appointments at Gringotts' and the like.

After fifteen minutes' pondering whether he ought to put a bow on Vanilla, he finally decided against it. It was Hermione Weasley he had to deal with after all, not Dolores Umbridge.

He knew he'd done it right the moment he entered her office.

She rose from her chair, a businesslike smile on her face, and walked towards him, her right hand already raised to shake his. Then she froze in mid-movement and did a double-take.

Lucius used the second or so it took her to regain control to thoroughly look her over. He had to admit to himself that he rather liked what he saw.

She certainly wasn't flat-chested anymore. The experience acquired by mentally undressing legions of women and later evaluating his data by undressing most of them for real told him that those severely cut ministry robes were hiding a rather curvaceous body. Her hair was still wild and frizzy, but she'd grown into it and tamed the worst of it by cutting it down to earlobe-length. Good skin, he thought. A few crow's feet, but certainly less than one would expect in a witch aged forty with two children, a stressful job and a ginger husband. When she finally extended her hand, he noticed the short, strong fingers and the lack of varnish on her short but impeccably manicured nails. No make-up, he observed, and no high heels. A no-nonsense woman. He'd have to be very careful.

'Madam Weasley.' He settled for a handshake instead of kissing the proffered hand. 'Thank you very much for giving me an appointment at such short notice.'

'Mr Malfoy.' The hand that briefly squeezed his was warm and dry, its grip firm. 'How may I help you?' She gestured him to a large leather armchair. 'Tea?'

He'd smelled the aroma of coffee upon entering her office. 'Coffee would be more welcome, unless it's too much trouble.'

She smiled and nodded. 'Not at all. And maybe a saucer of milk for your charming companion?'

'I'm sure Vanilla would appreciate that,' he replied gravely.

'Vanilla?' Already busy with the espresso machine, she looked back over her shoulder. 'A very fitting name, really. I've never seen this particular colouring in a Kneazle. She looks very young – how long have you had her?'

Lucius waited until she returned to the table, two cups of espresso and a saucer of milk floating ahead of her. 'Only three days. She is the reason why I came to see you.'

Vanilla started slurping her milk, purring loudly and visibly enjoying herself.

'The reason…' Madam Weasley's eyebrows rose. 'That comes as something of a surprise.'

'The coffee is excellent,' Lucius said, and she inclined her head and smiled. 'I am aware, madam, that my asking for an urgent appointment because of a Kneazle kitten must seem a little, well, odd. But I am sure you'll understand.'

'I'm sure.' She stroked Vanilla's back with her forefinger and leaned back into her chair. 'Explain, please.'

'As you certainly know, my overall situation is still slightly precarious. The raids the Aurors obviously see fit to perform on my house every now and then are sufficient proof, and I am quite sure that the Magical Intelligence Agency still keeps me under surveillance.'

'I'm not familiar with MIA procedures,' she said after a short pause, 'but I suppose you might be right.'

'So,' he continued, 'you will certainly understand that I wouldn't want to take any risks.' He put his empty cup down on the coffee table and crossed his arms. 'When Vanilla suddenly appeared on my doorstep, three days ago, I thought that she might have escaped from the adjacent grounds. Which, as you probably know, belong to the belligerent Augusta Wynthorppe.'

'The one who whacked Fudge with her umbrella?'

'No, that would be her daughter. Augusta senior is less known for her forceful political opinions than for breeding pedigreed Kneazles.'

A few discreet inquiries via the House Elf grapevine had already resulted in the certainty that Vanilla did not come from the Wynthorppe harridan's estate. In matters as literally vital as this, Lucius couldn't afford to be less than thorough.

'Ah, I see.' She peered at his empty cup. 'Would you like another one?'

'You are too kind. Yes, please.' He watched her as she prepared the coffee and continued, 'Since the day my father decided to marry my late mother instead of Augusta – not that I blame him – there has been an ongoing feud between our families. I'll spare you the gory details, but imagine how happy the old lady would be to find out that I, er, alienated one of her precious Kneazles.'

'So you want me to find out if one of her kittens is missing,' she said, returning to her chair with two steaming cups.

Vanilla, disregarding the most basic rules of etiquette, had decided that a nap was in order and lay sprawled in the middle of the coffee table. When the Deputy Head of Magical Law enforcement gently tickled her belly, she yawned widely and rolled onto her back.

'Well,' Lucius said, delighted that the stern Mrs Weasley seemed to have a soft spot for small, fluffy animals, 'I'm sure that such an unimportant matter is well beneath you, but I thought-'

'Considering any matter too unimportant or beneath me,' she retorted, getting up and straightening her robes, 'would be a grave mistake. One I sincerely hope I'll never make. I shall see to the matter personally and, of course, discreetly and owl you as soon as possible.'

Unlike his new pet, Lucius knew everything about etiquette. Madam Weasley had dismissed him, and so he rose from his chair, picked up Vanilla and bent down to kiss the hand of the woman who was to become his wife, unless he wanted to follow the Grim Reaper in less than a year. 'Your help is very much appreciated, madam. I shall look forward to receiving your owl.'

'You're welcome. Are you going to keep her, if Mrs Wynthorppe doesn't claim her?'

Lucius smiled down at her. 'I think I will. I can always pretend I'm doing it for my grandson's sake.'

The slight widening of her eyes told him that this last arrow had hit home. But he permitted himself a smile of satisfaction only when he'd reached the elevator.

oooooo


	2. Chapter 2

Lucius was a brilliant strategist. This was only one of many important facts Lord Voldemort had overlooked, just as he'd been ignorant of the simple truth that, in order to keep one's plans secret, it was best not to brag about them to all and sundry. Had he used Lucius Malfoy's talents instead of treating him like a mere minion, his plans for world domination would almost certainly have been successful.

As it was, Lucius was rather glad that things had ultimately gone the way they had. Being a Death Eater had been fun in the beginning, but on the whole he preferred being his own master to an existence as a megalomaniac's lapdog. You never knew with megalomaniacs. They had an annoying tendency towards poisoning their lapdogs, for fear of being bitten.

After reversing from lap dog to alpha dog, Lucius was still a brilliant strategist who knew that the tactics applied in seduction and war were basically the same, with the fundamental difference that, where seduction was concerned, you had to go to the additional trouble of making your adversary think that he'd won. Or she, in this particular case.

The first step, i.e. the reconnoitring, had been successfully executed. In order to see which tactics to apply next, he had to carefully view the data he'd collected. After a light lunch, Lucius left Vanilla to sleep the sleep of the just (and terminally stuffed) on the chair he'd just vacated, to go for a short walk through the grounds. When he'd reached his favourite spot near the lake, he summoned a House Elf and, seconds later, was comfortably resting on a blanket only in his shirt and trousers, with a sheet of parchment and a dictoquill hovering next to him.

He carefully memorized his meeting with Madam Weasley, second by second, and the quill scratched across the parchment, writing out detail after detail. When he'd finished, it had filled two feet of parchment with minute observations about Hermione Weasley, her office, the way she waked, talked and dressed.

She wasn't going to be easy prey, of that he was sure.

More than forty years spent on the slippery parquet of politics, and walking the dangerously thin ice of social life amongst Death Eaters (and ultimately falling in), had honed Lucius's instincts – he was able to get the measure of whoever he was dealing with within a mere ten seconds, and he was usually right. Having as much information as he'd gathered today certainly was an added bonus.

There was no way he'd be able to sweep the woman off her feet. She just wasn't the type. She didn't trust easily – the lack of anything pertaining to her private life in her office had told him as much. It had also told him that Madam Weasley was the kind of person who kept their professional and private lives strictly separated. He sighed. This particular character trait wasn't going to make things easy for him, because meeting her in a professional context would have been a lot simpler. He'd have to go for private contact right from the beginning.

Then again, why not try and apply a pincer movement? He only had one year, after all. Time was of the essence.

oooooo

The first thing Hermione Weasley saw, when she reluctantly opened her eyes on the morning of her fortieth birthday, was a giant cock.

On closer observation, it turned out that it wasn't as big as it had seemed at first glance. It was merely hovering very close to her face. 'Go away,' she muttered and tried to roll over, but became aware that her shoulders were being pinned to the pillow by two large hands.

'Happy birthday!'

She reopened her eyes. The cock was still there, bobbing slightly. Apparently it was excited. 'Happy birthday to you too,' Hermione said. 'And now leave me in peace, I want to sleep some more.'

'Oooh, grumpy birthday girl! Wake up, darling, it's your fortieth birthday today, and your loving husband knows the best way to start such an important day!'

Momentarily relieved, because the hands had stopped pushing her shoulders into the pillow, Hermione took a deep breath and smiled at the thought of falling asleep again. The pleasure was short-lived, however, because now a hand burrowed under the covers, insistent like a terrier who has found a rabbit hole. The hand briefly stopped to squeeze her left breast and then wandered down to wedge itself between her legs and nudge them apart.

By now, she was sufficiently awake to say, sharply, 'Stop it Ron! This instant!'

'Grumpy-grumpy-grump,' her husband's voice muttered into her ear. His hand remained where it was, rubbing and tickling her pubic hair. Then it suddenly stopped, because Hermione had clamped her fingers around the wrist.

'I said no, Ron!'

'But why?'

'Because, right now, I don't want to have sex.'

'What d'you mean, right now? You never want sex!'

'Well, if that's what you think, why did you think it was a good idea to shove your cock up my nose first thing in the morning?' Ron sighed, and Hermione's nose wrinkled. 'Did you clean your teeth last night?'

Ron's face went beet red. 'Stop acting like you're my mother. I don't remember, OK?'

'Your mother? I'm your wife, and I hate morning breath! It's not exactly an aphrodisiac, you know, especially when it reeks of stale alcohol.'

Still red-faced, Ron threw off the bedcovers, picked up his wand from the bedside table and stomped off to the bathroom.

Hermione let herself fall back into the pillows, covering her eyes with her right forearm. What a way to start the day! There was going to be a party tonight, Rose and Hugo had got special permission to come home for the occasion, friends and family would be gathering to celebrate… Ron had invited them all, conveniently forgetting that she'd be the one who had to deal with the preparations. Always the thoughtful husband.

She really needed some coffee, or she'd have to appear before the Wizengamot for first-degree murder. Although, she mused on her way to the kitchen, if there were an all-female jury, they'd probably clear her of all charges.

Her mood improved a little when she switched on the espresso machine and ground some coffee while it was warming up. The aroma of freshly-ground coffee always made her see things in a brighter light.

After carefully spooning coffee into the filter, she put a cup under the tap and watched as it slowly filled up with steaming, black-brown liquid. Ah, that heavenly smell… Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something large flit past the kitchen window, and seconds later a huge eagle owl was tapping against the glass pane with its beak.

Frowning, because she couldn't think of any friends or family members who possessed an eagle owl, and such a magnificent specimen at that, she opened the window, and the bird swooped in. It was way too big for the kitchen and fluttered helplessly, searching the room for a spot to land on. Hermione grinned and held out her arm. The owl alighted, the grip of its talons surprisingly gentle. There was a pouch tied around its neck.

'Hello, big boy,' Hermione said. 'You're quite heavy, you know?' She went over to the table, and the owl clumsily hopped off her arm. Hermione stroked the head with her forefinger, eliciting a soft hoot. The owl treat she'd summoned was graciously accepted, and when she'd untied the pouch, the bird hopped onto her forearm again and looked at her with its large, yellow eyes. 'Clever fellow,' Hermione muttered and went over to the window.

When the owl had vanished behind the trees, she returned to the table, wand drawn. The war had been over for a long time, but one couldn't be careful enough. Especially in her position – she'd sent a lot of wrongdoers to Azkaban, and they were not likely to send her flowers once they got out. But the spells she cast on the pouch revealed no trace of Dark Magic, and so she untied the strings to see what was inside.

'Who sent these?' Ron strolled into the kitchen, his red hair still wet and clinging to his neck and shoulders. He pointed at the magnificent arrangement of moon lilies and white roses, whose scent permeated the kitchen.

'Malfoy,' Hermione said. The card that had accompanied the flowers was safely stored in the pocket of her dressing gown.

'Malfoy? Which Malfoy?'

'Lucius Malfoy. I did him a small favour about two weeks ago, and he sent me flowers for my birthday.'

Ron filled the kettle and put it on the stove, then moved over to the table for a more careful inspection of the flowers. 'I don't like it,' he said.

'It's very pretty, though.'

'Not the flowers. They're nice enough, but I don't like the fact of Malfoy sending you flowers. You did him a favour, you said? What kind of favour?'

'That's work related and therefore confidential,' Hermione replied in clipped tones.

Momentarily distracted by the kettle, which started whistling, Ron dedicated himself to the preparation of his tea. 'He's dangerous,' he said, sitting down with his cup.

'Dangerous? Ron, this is ridiculous!'

Ron frowned at her. 'It's anything but. I'm sure that manor of his is full of Dark Artefacts-'

'Which so far you've failed to find. Come off it, Ron. Let it go. The man is no more dangerous than you or I, and certainly not in a position to do anything illegal. His ex-wife is married to Kingsley – don't you think she'd have told him about those Dark Artefacts, if they existed?'

'You don't understand those pureblood aristocrats,' Ron muttered gloomily. 'They stick together even when they're enemies.'

'I see.' Trying to keep down her rising sense of irritation, Hermione stood up to make herself another cup of coffee. 'Although I have no idea where your deep insights into pureblood habits are coming from, I assure you that this lovely bunch of flowers doesn't carry any Dark Spells. So leave it alone. I'd rather discuss the arrangements for tonight – I made two shopping lists, one for you and one for me, so we can both-'

'Can't go shopping today.'

Hermione whirled around. 'What?'

'Rivers is on sick leave, I have to take over half his shift. Kingsley wanted me to take all of it, but when I told him it was your birth-'

'You invited forty people, and you're not going to help?' Hermione interrupted him. 'It's my bloody birthday, and for once it's a Saturday, and the children are due home at three, and the guests are due at seven, and you're off to work?' The anger that had been bubbling inside her since she'd first opened her eyes wanted out. Now. 'I'm going to call Fortescue's catering service. For the buffet and drinks, and you'll pay for it.'

Ron was still gaping at her when she sat down with her coffee. 'Fortescue? But he's… he's expensive. Call the Leaky, if you don't want to do it yourself!'

'Oh, no. I said Fortescue, and Fortescue it will be. That's my last word, Ron. The discussion is over.' She stared at him out of narrowed eyes, daring him to protest.

He didn't protest. He did something much more stupid. 'Your socializing with pureblood aristocrats going to your head?' he asked cuttingly. 'Moon lilies and catering from Fortescue? Doing little favours for Lucius Malfoy? What's next? Accepting one of his poncy invitations to an informal gathering at Malfoy Manor?'

As a high-ranking Ministry employee, who was about to be promoted to an even higher rank in the near future, Hermione had been regularly receiving invitations to social events taking place at the Manor. She would've liked to accept some of them, because she was very aware of the importance of after-dinner small talk with People That Counted, but had always declined because of Ron. Given his unwillingness to set foot into Malfoy's house, she'd have had to go on her own, conspicuously unaccompanied by her husband, whose enmity towards all things Malfoy was well-known. So she'd decided it was preferable not to go at all.

'You know what?' she said, her voice low and deadly, 'I just might. They're one woman short, now that Narcissa isn't there to play hostess anymore, so if I show up alone, there won't be a problem with the seating arrangements. And since you're being such a stubborn idiot about Malfoy, I really don't see why I ought to avoid drawing attention to your stupid, unprofessional behaviour.'

She drained the last of her coffee and stalked out of the kitchen, leaving behind a rather dumbfounded husband who couldn't quite understand what precisely he'd done wrong and when.

oooooo

After she'd made the necessary arrangements with Fortescue (choosing the most expensive vintages had afforded her no small amount of pleasure), Hermione decided to treat herself to two hours at Lavender Brown's beauty spa, followed by a trip to Frills & Fripperies, the boutique owned by the Patil twins.

She arrived home at half past two and spent half an hour cleaning the house, alternating muttered spells with impressive strings of swearwords (ten years of field duty with a bunch of weathered colleagues had considerably enlarged her vocabulary).

Then Rose and Hugo arrived by portkey, and the next thirty minutes were a chaos of kisses, hugs, news, excitement and, of course, unwrapping presents. When the children had calmed down sufficiently to partake of milk and cookies in the living room, Hermione got a more coherent version of the last two weeks' events.

'Mum,' Rose said in between biscuits, 'can I have a Kneazle?'

Hermione sighed and prepared for battle. 'Darling, we've been over this a hundred times already. You know that Kneazles aren't allowed at Hogwarts, and I explained to you that Kneazles are very intelligent and need a lot of company. Daddy and I both work long hours, so we wouldn't be able to give the poor animal what it needs. I'm really sorry, baby, but you'll have to wait until you finish school.'

'Dad says they're really expensive too,' Hugo said.

'That's true, but the main problem is that the poor thing would be very unhappy,' Hermione put in before Rose could protest.

Her next argument, though, caught Hermione's attention more effectively than protest would have. 'Scorpius has got a Kneazle,' Rose said triumphantly, obviously convinced that she'd come up with a clinching argument. 'He showed me pictures.'

'She's talking about Scorpius Malfoy,' Hugo explained, watching with relish as his older sister blushed. 'Rose is in lurve with Scorpius.'

'I'm not – Mum, he's lying! I'm not in love with Scorpius! He's just a nice boy, and he let me copy his charms home-' Rose fell silent rather abruptly, realizing that this hadn't been a very wise thing to tell her mother.

Hugo snorted and grabbed another biscuit. Sister-baiting was always fun.

'I think,' Hermione said, prepared to overlook the slip of the tongue for the sake of inter-house relations, 'that friendships between Slytherins and Gryffindors ought to be encouraged. How come you're friends with Scorpius Malfoy?'

Rose's face went scarlet under her mop of curly red hair. 'Professor Binns told me off, and he told him it hadn't been my fault, because he'd started talking to me, not the other way round. And then' – Rose giggled and covered her mouth with a chocolate-smeared fist – 'he told him that his lessons were so boring, and talking to each other was the only way to stay awake, and then he got detention, and I got detention too, because I had to laugh so hard.'

'Two weeks into the school year, and you already got detention?' Hermione shook her head.

'Yes, Filch made us scrub the Charms corridor with brushes this big! Look, I've got blisters!' Rose proudly stuck out her hand. The blisters were barely recognizable under the chocolate coating. 'Scorpius got them too.'

Trying not to think about what Lucius Malfoy would have to say, once he received news of his grandson getting blisters from scrubbing a stone floor with a brush, Hermione said bracingly, 'That's really nice. So you've become friends? And Scorpius showed you pictures of his Kneazle?'

Rose nodded, curls a-bounce. 'Yes, his granddad sent them to him. He said he'd wanted it to be a surprise for the Christmas hols, but then the Kneazle was going to be bigger, and Scorpius ought to see pictures of when it's all small and cute.' She sighed. 'She's so cute, mum! Her fur's all fluffy and kind of yellow, and her name's-'

'Vanilla,' Hermione said, absentmindedly.

Hugo, who'd been following the conversation with hawklike attention, hoping to get a word in edgewise, stared at his mother. So did Rose. 'How d'you know?' they asked in unison.

'That's classified,' Hermione said, smiling mysteriously.

'You're awesome!' Hugo breathed.

'Totally awesome,' Rose echoed. 'Mum, can I go to Malfoy Manor? Scorpius said he'd invite me for Christmas – not all the holidays,' she hastily added, when Hermione opened her mouth to speak, 'just a day or two. Please mum, please say yes!'

'Dad will go spare,' Hugo said, happy to have found a weak spot where he could finally aim a poisoned arrow. 'He'll go spare anyway, when you tell him you're friends with a Malfoy, but he'll never allow you to go to their house. Never!'

Seeing her daughter's eyes fill with tears, and a broad grin spread over her son's face, Hermione quickly said, 'I'll discuss it with daddy. I'm sure he'll come round in the end. There's no reason why you shouldn't go to visit a friend, especially a friend with a Kneazle.'

But Hugo wasn't so easily deterred. 'Dad says there's lots of evil stuff at Malfoy Manor. Because Scorpius' granddad is a Dark Wizard.'

Rose shot up like a rattlesnake. 'Dark Wizards don't have Kneazle kittens!'

''Course they do. They use them for curse practice! Crucio! Meoooooow!' Hugo writhed in his chair in a perfect imitation of a tortured kitten.

Panicked, Rose shot her mother an imploring look. 'Mum! That's not true, is it? Tell him to stop it!'

Sighing inwardly, Hermione told her son to stop it, immediately, and then gave her children a short lecture on recent facts of the History of Magic. To her immense satisfaction, they both listened to her, spellbound. Take that, Binns, you boring old codger, she thought grimly.

oooooo

Lucius was sitting in his study, his eyes idly following the red-gold leaves a strong October wind was chasing past the window and into a rapidly darkening sky. A sheet of parchment was spread out on the desk, covered in the slightly clumsy writing of a child aspiring to write like an adult. He looked at the letter and smiled. His first move had been a success, without any doubt. The flowers hadn't been sent back, his grandson had struck up a very promising friendship with Rose Weasley – since the boy seemed to genuinely like his redheaded new friend, Lucius had nipped Draco's protest in the bud – and Scorpius' latest letter informed him that Madam Weasley had given her consent for Rose to visit during the Christmas holidays, provided that the Master of the Manor agreed to his grandson's wish.

It was definitely time to write a letter to the future Mrs Malfoy.

The future Mrs Malfoy had also accepted an invitation to an informal dinner for twenty selected guests, to be held the following Friday. He hadn't quite trusted his own eyes when he'd pulled the nondescript card from its envelope. But the message it conveyed in tidy, neat letters was unequivocal. Madam Weasley would be happy to attend, but bade to excuse her husband, whose busy schedule did not allow him to accompany her.

Yes, it was definitely time to write a letter to Madam Soon-to-Be-Ex-Weasley. Lucius poured himself a moderate measure of brandy, summoned a card embossed with the Malfoy crest, carefully chose a quill and started to write.

He'd been unsure at first whether to combine the issues of dinner on the one hand and Rose's visit on the other in a single letter. After careful deliberation, though, he'd decided that the dinner was a sufficiently private occasion to be infused with yet more privacy by introducing the subject of the Weasley girl spending a few days at the Manor.

It was a short missive, and he nodded to himself after reading it through. Yes, that would do. Lucius rose from his chair and went to open the window. He whistled once, and listened as the sound of swishing wings approached. The eagle owl landed on the windowsill; he fed it an owl treat before fastening the envelope around its neck. 'This is for Madam Weasley,' he said. 'Go to her house, and if she's not at home, go to her office. Don't give it to her husband.'

The owl hooted once and took off. He watched its shadow melt into the darkness. Then he closed the window and sat down at his desk, to write a letter to his grandson.

oooooo


	3. Chapter 3

Too weary to Apparate, Hermione searched her office for an appropriate object to be turned into a Portkey. That was the problem with keeping your office tidy, she thought, potential Portkeys weren't easy to come by. Finally, she remembered an old quill she'd thrown into the dustbin earlier this afternoon and summoned it with a quick Accio.

Tired though she was, the idea of going home didn't really appeal to her. She returned to her desk and sat down, listening to the silence of the now-deserted Ministry building and willing herself to relax and enjoy five minutes of undisturbed peace before returning to Upper Flagley.

It wasn't work that was wearing her down, she mused, it was her private life. She briefly rubbed her aching neck and finally allowed herself to let her shoulders sag forward. Her forehead resting in her hands, she stared down at the wooden surface of her desk. Falling asleep in her office would provide a handy excuse for not going home, she thought wryly. A crick in the neck was a small price to pay for an evening devoid of fights with her husband.

They hadn't done anything but fight these last weeks.

Hermione sighed deeply and raised her head. What on earth had gone wrong? It seemed that she and Ron were unable to communicate normally any more; as soon as they started talking, they disagreed, and once they'd begun to disagree, things rapidly went downhill. She had, of course, seen the connection between both children having left for Hogwarts and the sudden outburst of enmity. Had it been a mere coincidence? She thought not. When Rose had arrived, and Hugo had been born a mere thirteen months after Rose, the children had become the focus of their marriage. They'd modified their work schedules according to the little one's needs, with nary a thought for themselves. Rose and Hugo had certainly benefited from the arrangement, but it seemed to have seriously damaged her and Ron's relationship.

For almost thirteen years, she'd been viewing Ron mainly as the father of her children. And now the children were out of the house for nine months out of twelve, and when she'd tried to once again look at Ron as her husband, she'd found out, much to her surprise, that she was living with a stranger. The children were all they had in common, hard though she'd been trying to find something, anything really, that might serve as a common basis.

Had she changed as much as he had?

A curly strand of hair, which had refused to stay in place all day long, fell into her face, and Hermione looked at it, cross-eyed.

Ron had changed a lot, as she'd recently found out.

He'd always attributed a lot of importance to money, and she'd accepted it, knowing how poor his family was. But she'd never been aware that he was greedy. Yes, Fortescue's bill had been a little… extravagant, but then it had been her birthday, and she certainly wouldn't have expected him to throw the sum into her face more than once. It kept coming up again and again, though, with annoying regularity.

And he was turning more and more into a male incarnation of his mother.

Hermione hadn't been overly keen on having Molly Weasley as her mother-in-law, but being married to Molly Weasley was more than she was willing to accept. Where had Ron's light-heartedness gone, where was his sense of humour hiding, and how and when on earth had her husband turned into a hardcore racist? The row they'd had, last week, when Rose had written home and begged their permission to visit her friend Scorpius during the Christmas holidays…

She shuddered at the recollection. All that hatred, how had he managed to keep it buried for so long? Maybe she would've been able to cope with the hatred, if at least he had bothered to keep it focused on Lucius Malfoy. But he'd lashed out at her, calling her an upstart who had to associate with Death Eaters in order to fulfil her crazy, overwrought ambitions, an upstart who didn't hesitate to send her daughter to that pervert's house, to Malfoy Manor, the scene of unspeakable acts of debauchery, and Malfoy probably was a paedophile, but of course she didn't care, because her career was more important to her than her family…

At that point, she'd hit him. Her face still went hot with shame when she remembered the scene, because she'd never hit anybody in her life, except in self-defence. Draco, yes, back in her third year at Hogwarts; she'd experienced a similar rush of anger back then. She hadn't apologized to Ron, and he hadn't seemed to expect an apology. For a few days following that horrible scene, they'd avoided each other, and things had improved a bit, but then she'd received and accepted Malfoy's dinner invitation. She'd tried to explain to her husband that she was proud of Rose having overcome the old prejudice, and that she didn't want to endanger her daughter's budding friendship with Scorpius by giving his grandfather the cold shoulder. As always, her rational arguments had shattered like glass against the solid brick wall of hate and prejudice. Her attempt to appeal to his pride, pointing out that, if Lucius Malfoy was able to part with his notions of superiority, Ron certainly ought to be able to do the same, hadn't been successful either. Her husband had merely accused her of disloyalty (stressing the fact that such fickleness was not a character trait the Weasley clan appreciated) and stomped off to sleep on the living room couch.

There was a silver lining to every cloud.

Hermione immediately berated herself for this thought but had to admit that she really didn't mind sleeping on her own.

And now she couldn't help it anymore, the tears just wanted out.

Being called an ambitious upstart who sent her daughter to a perverted paedophile's house had stung. But it had been such an absurd, far-fetched accusation – although it had made her angry, it hadn't hurt. But when he'd switched to more personal insults… Hermione swallowed convulsively and rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. It was true, their sex life had been somewhat lacklustre since she'd given birth to Hugo. It had been a difficult pregnancy, very unlike the first one, and the birth had been long and painful. It had taken her months to recover – small wonder, she'd had to manage a jealous one-year old toddler and a newborn – and when she'd returned to work, she'd needed all her energy to keep herself from just breaking down with exhaustion. Nothing could have been further from her mind, back then, than sex. And somehow, the lack of sex had become something of a routine, interrupted by the occasional perfunctory shag. Her body had changed with the two pregnancies; she wasn't a teenager anymore, she'd suddenly become conscious of her own body and its needs. Needs she had trouble expressing in the face of Ron's gung-ho attitude towards intercourse. But that didn't give him the right to call her…

'Frigid cow,' Hermione said to the eagle owl that landed on her desk.

The owl hooted.

'Oh, sorry. I didn't mean to insult you.' She rummaged through her desk drawer in search of a treat and finally found one. 'I'm sure,' she said to the owl, holding the treat out on her palm, 'that you have an interesting and varied sex life. You're a Malfoy owl, after all, so you're probably as perverse and debauched as your master. To tell you the truth, I quite envy you.'

The owl hooted again and took off. With a sigh, Hermione opened the letter.

_Dear Madam Weasley_, it read, _being given a lesson in etiquette by my twelve-year-old grandson may be a little difficult to accept, but I shall endeavour to disprove the adage concerning old dogs and new tricks. Please find enclosed a formal invitation for Miss Rose Weasley to spend a few days at Malfoy Manor with Scorpius. Since you were kind enough to accept my invitation to dinner on Friday, may I suggest that you join me at 7 p.m., in order to discuss the further arrangements at leisure, before the arrival of the other guests? Contritely yours, Lucius Malfoy._

oooooo

'So you're going?' Ron asked, leaning against the doorframe, watching Hermione while she carefully applied a few cosmetic charms.

She frowned at his reflection in the mirror. 'Of course. I thought I'd made that abundantly clear.'

'The invitation was for eight o'clock.'

'Thanks for reminding me. We have things to discuss before the guests arrive.'

'Things to discuss?' Ron's brows rose. 'Things you can't discuss in front of his Death Eater cronies? That's worse than I thought.'

Hermione gritted her teeth and inhaled deeply. 'We're going to talk about Rose's visit. I don't like to talk family in the presence of strangers, and obviously he doesn't either.'

'Rose isn't going to that bastard's house.'

'If she wants to go, she will go, and that's my final word.'

His face vanished from the mirror as he stepped further into the room. 'I have as much right as you to decide-'

'We've already been through this,' she interrupted him, her voice hard. 'She's in no more danger at Malfoy Manor than she is at Hogwarts. Therefore your fears for her safety are irrational, which means that I don't have to take them into account. And now kindly leave the room, I'm already running late and need to change.'

Ron merely shrugged and muttered something unintelligible before he turned and exited the bedroom. Hermione felt a small frisson and rubbed her arms to get rid of the goose pimples, making a mental note to renew the warming charms on the hallway. They always seemed to wear off too quickly.

The argument with Ron had indeed made her late; there was no time left to search for another set of robes with a less daring neckline. Then again, she thought with a mental shrug, why even bother? She did like her cleavage, so why not show it off, just for a change? Malfoy certainly wasn't going to believe she wanted to seduce him, and the sight of her décolleté wasn't likely to provoke fits of debauchery in her host. Besides, she liked the colour and texture of these robes. She'd acquired them on her birthday, urged by the twins, and not yet worn them – hence her surprise at the neckline. Padma and Parvati had, of course, been right (they always were) about jade-green satin and the way it would enhance her complexion.

A glance at the clock told her that she had two minutes left to find a matching purse, cloak and sandals.

oooooo

As Lucius stood waiting at the Apparition point, at five minutes to seven, he almost began to doubt his character analysis of Madam Weasley. It had been accurate so far, and he really couldn't fathom how a woman so neat, tidy and punctiliously correct could possibly be anything but punctual. He'd have been willing to bet a large sum of money on Hermione Weasley always being five minutes early.

She popped into existence one minute before the appointed time, stumbled and almost fell, and gave him a grateful smile when he offered a steadying arm. 'Sorry,' she panted, 'usually I'm at least five minutes early.'

Lucius inclined his head to hide a smile. 'You are a very busy woman, Madam Weasley. I am glad that you could spare the extra hour.'

'Being busy is no excuse for keeping one's host waiting,' she replied.

'Since it's the host making the excuses…'

Hermione smiled up at him, as she preceded him into the entrance hall. 'It's a bit less embarrassing, yes.'

He led her into the library and gestured at a group of armchairs. 'Have a seat, please. What would you like to drink?'

'Something non-alcoholic for the time being, I think. I forgot to eat lunch…' She blushed when her stomach gave a loud rumble. 'QED, I'd say.'

'Definitely.' Lucius snapped his fingers, and a House Elf appeared with a crack. 'Twinky makes excellent iced tea, with mint and lemon. Would that be to your liking?'

'Oh, that sounds fabulous. Yes, please.'

He nodded to the elf and added, 'And a plate of canapés.'

'That's not necessary, really.'

'I thought Gryffindors don't lie?' he asked mockingly, while pouring himself a whisky.

'Well, they do, if they think it's polite.'

'Only white lies, then?'

'Only white lies,' Hermione replied, trying to suppress a smile. 'For politeness' sake.'

Twinky the elf returned with a carafe of iced tea and a plate that held an amount of canapés sufficient to feed the entire population of Upper Flagley. Pretending to study his whisky, Lucius observed the future Mrs Malfoy from under half-closed eyelids. She wasn't exactly pretty, but certainly very attractive. He noticed the slight tremor in her hand, when she picked up a canapé. Strange, he thought, Madam Weasley looked healthy enough, so maybe it was stress? Nervousness? He'd just opened his mouth to say something, when the glass slipped from her hand and fell into her lap, rolled down her thighs and shattered on the floor.

Lucius got to his feet and pronounced a quick 'Reparo!' The glass was whole again, but the front of Hermione's robes was soaked through with ice tea. 'Stay exactly where you are,' Lucius said. 'And don't try to remove the stain.' He snapped his fingers, and Twinky appeared, taking in the domestic catastrophe with anxious green eyes. 'Get a new glass for Madam Weasley, and bring Flopsy,' he ordered. 'Flopsy used to be my ex-wife's personal elf,' he explained to Hermione, who was still staring, speechlessly, at her dripping dress robes. 'I have yet to come upon a stain she's unable to remove without a trace.'

Hermione merely nodded. Then she swallowed, inhaled deeply and said 'Thank you. I'm not usually-'

But she didn't finish her sentence. Her right hand, which was still holding the canapé, was beginning to shake.

'I think,' Lucius said, deftly catching the piece of bread in his flat palm, 'that you ought to see a mediwizard, Madam Weasley. Evanesco!' The canapé blinked out of existence.

'But…' Hermione shook her head. 'This has never happened before.'

Lucius cocked his head. 'Are you sure?'

'Yes, look at my hands! They aren't trembling at all.'

'Hm. No, they don't seem to be trembling.' Lucius's eyes narrowed. 'Do me a favour, Madam Weasley, and take another canapé.'

She gave him a curious look, but did as he'd told her.

'Wingardium Leviosa,' he pronounced, as her right hand started shaking again, and the next canapé followed the pull of gravity. Twinky and Flopsy appeared, but he waved them into a corner. 'This, my dear Madam Weasley, looks suspiciously like a jinx to me. May I?' He pointed his wand at her and waited for an answer.

'That bastard,' Hermione said in a voice so low that he could barely make out the words. 'That goddamned, motherfucking, lousy bastard.' She cleared her throat. 'Pardon my French. Go ahead, Mr Malfoy.'

It wasn't difficult to guess who had put the jinx on her, but Lucius wisely chose to ignore her words. If that was how things stood in the Weasley household, there was no need for him to pour oil into the flames. So he merely performed a spiral motion with his wand and muttered, 'Tremebundus Relascio!'

At his sign, Twinky filled the glass she'd brought with tea and presented it to Hermione.

'Well then,' Hermione said, 'let's be really, really adventurous.' She picked up another canapé and slowly brought it to her mouth, while at the same time taking a sip of tea. Nothing happened.

'Excellent,' Lucius said. 'Flopsy, Madam Weasley has spilled tea on her dress. Bring a dressing gown, and remove the stain. The dress shall be needed at a quarter to eight at the latest.'

Five minutes later, Hermione was again comfortably ensconced in her armchair, clad in a dressing gown and finally able to eat her fill of canapés. She'd decided to push her anger back to some remote part of her brain, at least for the time being. Malfoy had been too tactful to ask any questions, and she was looking forward to a few hours of good company and excellent food. If she allowed Ron to spoil her pleasure by his childish, unacceptable behaviour, he'd have won, and she certainly didn't want to give him that satisfaction.

Lucius, who had rather accurately guessed her thoughts, sat down in the chair next to hers. The lady's restraint was admirable, if one disregarded the few muttered swearwords. His wife-to-be certainly possessed a hefty amount of self-discipline. He liked that in a woman, although he was wondering whether Madam Weasley was able to relax at all. Lucius took in her features – the wide, full mouth, the large eyes, the expressive face. No, he thought, Hermione Weasley was no icicle. Temporarily frozen, maybe. Defrosting her might not be simple, but certainly worth the effort.

'Well, Madam Weasley,' he said, 'this seems like an excellent time to discuss the two lovebirds currently residing at Hogwarts.'

Hermione snorted and choked on her tea. Lucius bent over to pat her back. His hand lingered a little longer than strictly necessary. She didn't flinch.

Lucius smiled to himself.

Oooooo

The sun rose mercifully late towards the end of October. Hermione opened her eyes, yawned and stretched luxuriously. The sleeping arrangements hadn't changed in the week or so since they'd fought over her accepting Malfoy's invitation, and so she had the whole bed to herself. It was pure luxury, really, being able to wake up in her own sweet time, to stay in bed for ten minutes to order her thoughts, without being disturbed by Ron's snores or, worse, unsubtle hints about morning sex.

She summoned a glass of water from the adjacent bathroom and drank deeply.

Her bladder was making demands, but she decided that the loo could wait for another ten minutes. She wanted to think about last night, and she wanted to do so before getting up. She'd never got the hang of returning to bed once she'd left it. But today was a Saturday, which meant no work, no appointments and hence time for her to spend just as she liked.

Turning around to lie on her side, Hermione mused that, much as she missed her two cubs, the free weekends were a luxury she hadn't dared to imagine since Rose's birth. Since she'd refused to accept Molly's offer of free-of-charge day care and had very seldom made use of the possibility of dropping Rose and Hugo at Godric's Hollow (mostly because she knew that she'd have to return the favour), she'd rarely enjoyed a free weekend. Or gone to a dinner on her own.

Her thoughts returned to last night. Apart from the slight disaster at the beginning, it had been a thoroughly pleasant evening. She'd been seated at Malfoy's right, with Juniper Fenchurch as her right hand neighbour. Fenchurch was a bit of a bore, but he was a Hogwarts School Governor, and they'd had the most interesting conversation about reforming the DADA curriculum. Malfoy – no, it was Lucius now, wasn't it? She seemed to recall they'd agreed to first names some time during the fish course – had joined in, and they'd bounced ideas back and forth…

Those House Elves certainly knew how to prepare a five-course meal. She'd had too much wine, of course, and eaten too much, but what was a girl to do, when she felt so relaxed, and the wine matched the food so perfectly?

When the dinner had finally come to an end, she'd followed the other guests into the entrance hall. Somehow, though, the elves had been unable to find her cloak, and then she realized she'd left her purse in the dining room (although she could've sworn she'd taken it with her), and when she returned to the entrance hall, everybody had been gone. Malfoy, who still looked way too chipper after the quantities of alcohol he'd imbibed (and how on earth did the man manage to stay in shape, with elfish chefs like this?), had invited her to join him in the library for a nightcap.

And then… Hermione rolled over and buried her face in the pillow. The scene was vivid in her mind, and the details much more accurate than she cared for.

Vanilla, who had grown a lot since Hermione had first met her, had strolled in through the open door and jumped onto her wizard's lap. Malfoy evidently didn't use her for curse practice, because the kitten was neither fearful nor subdued, but gave every sign of unbridled feline love and adoration.

They'd talked politics, then, and switched from politics to children, and Malfoy had told her the story about Scorpius' first attempt at catching a snitch, and it had been so funny – she'd laughed so hard that tears were streaming down her face. In return, she'd regaled him with the story about the Polyjuice Potion incident in her second year, and he'd bent double with laughter. And then Vanilla had started swatting at his hair, and he'd called her a Very Bad Kitten in a tone of voice she'd found very endearing, and then… 'I'll never be able to understand why Narcissa left you for Shacklebolt.'

She'd prayed for the floor to open the moment the words left her mouth. The floor, however, was made of wood and thus not susceptible to the pleas of a damsel in distress.

She'd stared at her host, wide-eyed and at a loss for words, expecting a cool retort and an unveiled dismissal.

But he'd smiled at her, and said that this was the sweetest compliment he'd ever had the pleasure to receive, and then he'd stood up and bent over her and brushed a kiss over her forehead. They'd remained silent for a while – strange, she thought, it hadn't been awkward at all, just nice and… companionable, really. The kind of silence she liked, where you could almost hear the other's thoughts whisper a dialogue with the flames crackling in the fireplace.

They'd both nodded off; Twinky had woken them rather abruptly, when she popped into the library to see if they needed anything. After unobtrusively checking her dress for traces of drooling – there hadn't been any, thank god for small mercies – Hermione had thanked her sleepy, slightly befuddled host for a wonderful evening, kissing his cheek just before she Apparated.

If she had any common sense, Hermione sternly told herself, she'd write him a letter this very morning, making her apologies for her less than proper behaviour last night, and telling him in no uncertain terms that all relations between them must come to an immediate end.

It was impossible to ignore her bladder's desperate screams any longer, and so Hermione hoisted herself out of bed with a sigh and trudged to the bathroom.

A letter like that, she thought while washing her hands, wouldn't be out of place in a Bronte novel. But this was the twenty-first century, and she was an independent witch.

On her way back to the bed it occurred to her that she was also a married witch. A married witch with a crush on Lucius Malfoy, obviously. Married to Ron Weasley, fancying Lucius Malfoy. Which was stupid, really, because Malfoy would probably become a lot more Ron-ish, once he was married. Or would he?

Lying on her back and staring at the ceiling, Hermione pondered the problem. If – hypothetically speaking of course – Lucius became more like Ron after she married Lucius, Ron must have been more like Malfoy before she married Ron, that was logical, wasn't it? Provided it was (Hermione wasn't quite sure, but prepared to accept it as a working hypothesis), she'd just neatly disproved her initial assumption of increasing Ron-ishness in a married Malfoy, because Ron had never been anything like Malfoy, even before they'd got married.

So far, so good. But where did that leave her? Lying in a bed, all by herself, obviously. Prey to a sudden upsurge of hormones. Caressing her belly and rubbing her thighs together. Imagining Malfoy's hands parting her legs…

Eyes closed, Hermione grabbed for her wand and spelled the bedroom door shut.

Then she unleashed her imagination, allowing herself to fantasize about Lucius's blond hair tickling her breasts, his warm breath caressing her ear, and his hands doing the wickedest things to her body.

She bit her lip, just in time to stifle a moan she'd have trouble explaining to her husband.

oooooo


	4. Chapter 4

Death had appeared at his breakfast table exactly three months ago, and Lucius decided that it was time to sit down and carefully ponder the events of those last three months.

Although well aware of the dangers of wallowing in his accomplishments, he felt, nevertheless, that he'd come a lot closer to his goal than he would have dared to imagine in his wildest dreams. Since the fateful dinner shortly before Halloween, he had managed to establish a relationship with Hermione Weasley. It was friendship, for the time being, or at least something very akin to friendship, but he did, of course, sense the undercurrents of desire. Not only in Hermione, but in himself as well, and that was probably the biggest surprise.

In spite of all her power and self-assurance, and under all those layers of self-discipline, correctness and impeccable behaviour, he had detected a certain fragility in the woman, a vulnerability he would never have expected to find. This hidden trait appealed to him – there was no way he could deny that he was a patriarch at heart, and protecting his family was second nature to him. Not that Hermione needed protection, perish the thought. But there was something inside her that needed protection, something frail and a little underdeveloped. Her sexuality, maybe? Lucius smirked into his whisky. He'd certainly like to protect _that_, bring it to full bloom and savour the fruit of his, ahem, labour.

They'd seen a lot of each other, these last weeks. His inspiration of placing Fenchurch next to her had been nothing short of brilliant. The ideas they'd planted into her head had taken firm root there and grown into a full-blown project in the course of a mere six weeks. Hermione was head of the committee that strived to reform Hogwarts' DADA curriculum, Fenchurch and Lucius represented the Board of Governors, and Hermione had jumped at his proposal of including the Head Boy and Girl – this was the twenty-first century after all, and the principles of democracy were beginning to blossom…

Lucius cleared his throat and firmly admonished himself for excessive use of gardening metaphors.

Hermione had also participated in another two dinners at the Manor. Both times, he'd persuaded her to stay after the other guests had left, and last Saturday she'd finally started to tell him about her marriage. Tidbits, really, but it had been enough to make him aware of how genuinely unhappy she was. He wasn't sure how long things had been going badly, but the few snippets she'd told him had convinced him that her obvious infatuation with him was not the cause but the consequence of a crumbling relationship with Ron Weasley. When she'd left – with the now-traditional kiss on the cheek – Lucius had been surprised to notice that he was actually relieved. Of course he had to lure her away from her husband and into marriage with himself, his life depended on it, after all, but now that he'd come to truly like her, he was glad to be the remedy for, not the cause of her unhappiness.

He was also acutely aware that Christmas was only three weeks away, and that the holidays would take his plans a step further. It was maybe the most decisive and certainly the most dangerous step. He'd planned carefully, but if she was ever to find out that he'd set her up… Maybe he ought to make preparations for his funeral – a superstitious gesture to avert evil spirits, like touching wood… He wasn't going to touch anything but wood for the next few decades, if Hermione saw through his machinations… Oak would be nice, if a bit common…

oooooo

The arrival of Rose and Hugo meant that Ron had to move back into the bedroom. They hadn't discussed it, but there was one thing the Weasley couple still had in common: the love for their children and the wish to spend a peaceful Christmas holiday.

So Ron's things wandered from the living room back into the bedroom, and Hermione told herself that, yes, she was able to live through two weeks without morning masturbation fuelled by fantasies of Lucius fucking her into the mattress.

The children arrived the day before Christmas Eve. Both parents went to meet them at King's Cross station, together with the Potters and Teddy Lupin. They Portkeyed straight to Godric's Hollow for dinner, which was a turbulent affair full of laughter and stories. Christmas Eve was to be spent at the Burrow, and although there were loads of toddlers and screaming babies, the day went by rather quickly. Hermione even managed to keep her cool in the face of Molly Weasley's usual tirades about the irreparable damage working mothers did to their children.

On Christmas Day, Hermione's nerves were slowly beginning to fray. Ron didn't have to cast a jinx on her to make her hands shake; the joys of family life were doing a much better job.

Over the last two days, Ron's bad mood had been more or less drowned out by the boisterous Potter and Weasley clans. Their constant noise had swallowed up the occasional acid remark, and since everybody wanted to have a good time, nobody had paid much attention to the dark clouds gathering around Ron's head. On the twenty-fifth during breakfast, however, the smoke screen was gone. The atmosphere was tense, the conversation stilted and interspersed with uncomfortable silences. Hermione tried her best to be cheerful, but since she didn't want to talk about school, for fear that Rose might mention Scorpius, she soon ran out of subjects.

She hadn't reckoned with her daughter's impatience to visit her friend, though. All of a sudden, the leaden silence was broken by Rose, who asked, her voice squeaky with anticipation, 'We're going to Malfoy Manor tomorrow, aren't we, mummy?'

The question had the same effect as the first bolt of lightning ripping through the sky after a long and sultry day. The roar of thunder that followed made you cringe, but all in all it was a cathartic experience.

Ron flung his cutlery on his plate and glared at his daughter.

Hugo, who normally knew no higher pleasure than dropping his sister in the poo, shrunk back into his chair.

Rose, suddenly aware that she'd said the wrong thing, looked at her father, her eyes already brimming with tears.

Hermione thought of Lucius, and of her morning fantasies, and of the remote possibility that those fantasies might eventually become reality, and replied, 'Yes, darling. Of course we're going. You promised Scorpius you'd come, didn't you?'

And then she nearly laughed out loud, because Hugo pronounced, in a voice that quivered with chivalry, 'You don't need to be afraid, daddy. I asked Scorpius if I could come too, and he said yes, and his granddad said yes too, and so I'll be there to protect mum and Rose against the evil wizard.'

'That's very thoughtful of you, Hugo,' she said. 'You don't have to come with us though, if you don't want to. Are you sure you wouldn't rather accompany daddy to the Ministry?'

His inner dilemma was clearly showing on Hugo's face. He cocked his head and looked from his father to his sister and finally at his mother. 'There's the poor Kneazle kitten,' he finally said. 'If Scorpius' granddad really uses it for curse practice, Rose will have to distract Scorpius, and you'll have to distract the evil wizard, so I can grab Vanilla and run. That's what Aurors do, isn't it, dad?' He peered anxiously at his father's face.

Ron didn't stand a chance in hell. 'Yes, Hugo,' he finally said. 'That's exactly what Aurors do. Instead of building a snowman after breakfast, I think we ought to brush up your duelling skills, huh?'

He'd saved the moment, Hermione thought. She had to give him that. For the rest of the day, they'd be able to play family, for the kids' sake.

oooooo

Hermione vividly remembered the encounter with Lucius and Draco, almost thirty years ago, when they'd run into each other at Flourish and Blotts. More than the actual words and images, she recalled her feeling of revulsion at Lucius' treatment of his son. She was therefore quite curious to see how he interacted with his grandson.

Lucius had sent a Portkey, since Apparating with two children in tow was way too dangerous and only to be done in emergency situations, according to Ministry regulations (In her first year as a junior MLE officer, Hermione had patrolled Apparition points. She still knew the rules by heart).

They were standing in the garden, each child clutching an overnight bag that had been packed and repacked about twenty times, their hands touching a porcelain replica of a Kneazle. While muttering last-minute safety instructions to her children, Hermione mentally went through the contents of her handbag. Present for Scorpius – check. Present for Lucius – check. The children emergency potions kit – check. Sleekeazy – check. Perfume – yes, but this wasn't a clandestine meeting with a lover, this was a… She felt the portkey pull her off into another dimension before she could finish her thought.

Unlike Yorkshire, where it had snowed a lot before Christmas, there was barely any snow down in Wiltshire, but the grounds were muddy, and so Lucius had enchanted the portkey to transport his guests directly into the entrance hall. Their landing was a bit uncoordinated – Hugo tripped over his mother's feet and was hit over the head by his sister's bag, when Rose flung it aside to race across the hall, squealing 'Scorpius!' at the top of her voice.

Lucius was well aware that helping Hugo to his feet would turn the young man into a diminutive but powerful enemy. At age eleven, male pride was already a sensitive matter. He therefore ignored the son and instead kissed the mother's hand. 'Hermione. It's good to see you.' In the meantime, Hugo had scrambled to his feet. Although tall for his age, his head was level with Lucius's stomach. 'And you,' Lucius said gravely, extending his hand, 'must be Mr. Weasley.'

This was the first time Hugo was facing a Certified Evil Wizard. If not for his budding male pride, he would have loved to hide behind his mother's skirt. As things were, he merely went a little pale, blinked rapidly and carefully took the offered hand. 'Erm, not really,' he said, 'I'm Hugo. Dad's Mr Weasley.'

'I see. Well, Hugo, it is a pleasure to meet you.'

Hermione, who was in the throes of a fit of I-Want-My-Children-To-Be-On-Their-Best-Behaviour syndrome, looked around the room. Rose and Scorpius had already vanished to whereabouts unknown. 'Rose has been a little overexcited these days,' she said apologetically, 'Usually she knows that one says hello to one's host before wandering off to explore his house.'

Lucius raised his hands in resignation. 'I assure you that Scorpius normally doesn't forget his manners, either.'

There was a short pause. Hugo, gratified to have scored points for manners, which was a rather atypical occurrence, decided to make as much of the situation as possible. 'I could go and fetch them, if you want to read them the riot act.'

Having been an only child, Hermione had learned all about sibling rivalry during her stays with the Weasley clan and, later on, through her son and daughter. Sometimes it still baffled her. 'That, erm, won't be necessary, I think. But you may join them, if you like. Or would you rather stay with us?'

'Dunno…' Hugo was shifting his weight from his right foot to his left, back and forth. He looked like a small, red-haired dervish. Going after the other two was an alluring idea, because he'd be able to tell them off for bad behaviour, but was it okay to leave his mum in the company of a Certified Evil Wizard? He stared up at Lucius, who met his gaze without looking away.

Winning a staring contest with an eleven-year old boy had as much chance of success as trying to stare down a Kneazle. Lucius therefore decided to interrupt the glaring competition by asking, in a silky voice that reminded Hermione of Potions lessons log past, 'Do you see anything of interest, Mr Weasley?'

Hugo went scarlet. 'Erm… I… No…' He inhaled deeply. 'I thought evil wizards had red eyes,' he blurted out. A quick glance at his mother, who had closed her eyes in mortification, told him that, this time, he was not going to get a summa cum laude for his behaviour.

'This may be true for Very Evil Dark Wizards,' Lucius replied without missing a beat. 'Your, er, average evil wizard usually keeps his own eye colour.'

Hugo nodded, reassured. 'You're not going to put a Dark Mark on mum then, while I'm not looking?'

'I think I may safely promise that,' was the solemn answer.

'Mum?' he asked, his voice small, 'Can I… go?'

'That,' Hermione said in a tone that spoke of riot acts to be read in the near future, 'seems like an excellent idea.'

He trotted of, and Hermione looked after him, shaking her head. 'I'm not going to insult your intelligence by wondering aloud where that came from. Sorry, Lucius. I wasn't aware his father had-'

'Don't apologize for your husband's ill-judged comments,' he interrupted her. He was furious, but careful not to take it out on her. Usually more comfortable with hexing his adversaries than employing physical violence, Lucius nonetheless felt the strong urge to punch Ronald Weasley's face. Not his wife's, though. The things he wanted to do to her face were quite different. 'Lunch will be in two hours, but you look as if you might appreciate a cup of tea.'

The morning had been a wild succession of packing, unpacking, repacking, struggles with the children, who wanted to put the strangest things into their bags (the bathtub had been the most conspicuous, if by no means the most bizarre object), and Hermione desired nothing more than a quiet cup of tea and a peaceful chat in Lucius's library.

'Yes,' she said with a grateful smile, 'I really would.'

oooooo

The formal introductions between Madam Weasley, Mister Malfoy, young Master Malfoy and Miss Weasley took place shortly before lunch, when the children were being herded into the library by a harassed-looking House Elf. Scorpius was the spitting image of his father (and probably also grandfather) as Hermione remembered him from school. She soon found out, though, that the boy was not the strutting, precociously arrogant child his father had been. He was anything but, in fact. Very well-mannered, yes, and very respectful and obedient towards his grandfather. But otherwise, she thought, he seemed to be a very sweet little boy. During the afternoon, she upgraded that to 'very sweet, mischievous little troublemaker'.

While Hugo was still a little shy around Lucius, Rose evidently didn't have any such problems. Hermione guessed that this was likely due to Lucius looking like a grown-up version of her friend Scorpius, while she watched her daughter shake Lucius's hand and apologize, cheeks dimpling, for not having greeted him properly at her arrival. 'I'm usually better behaved,' she said, 'But I was so happy to see Scorpius.' A bright smile deepened her dimples. 'I'm sure you understand.'

Mouth twitching, Lucius nodded. 'Such is the attraction of Malfoy males, my dear. I completely understand.' He bent down and plucked Vanilla from under Rose's arm. The kitten was looking a bit tired but decidedly happy. 'Scorpius,' he said, 'would you be so kind as to put Vanilla out?' Rose's face fell. 'Only during lunch,' Lucius assured her.

'But she's always in the dining room while we're having lunch, grandfather,' said The Voice of Innocence, 'And this is practically a family lunch, why can't she stay?'

Now it was Lucius's turn to close his eyes in mortification. 'Family secrets, Scorpius, are not to be discussed in front of strangers, welcome though they may be. You'd do well to remember that.'

'I know. But this' – Scorpius pointed at Vanilla – 'isn't exactly a family secret. More of a quirk, actually. I'm sure Vanilla would like to stay with us, she's too tired for mischief anyway.' He gave his grandfather a winning smile. 'Besides,' he pointed out, 'it would make Rose very happy, I'm sure.'

Stony-faced, Lucius looked down at Rose. 'Would it make you happy, Miss Weasley?'

She nodded, curls bobbing. 'Very,' she said and reached up.

Lucius handed her the kitten and offered his arm to Hermione. 'This day seems to give the term Pyrrhic victory a wholly new sense,' he muttered.

She patted his arm. 'Don't worry. As long as they don't quarrel…'

But the lunch was surprisingly free of conflicts.

Knowing how picky her children sometimes were, Hermione had told them that, in case they didn't like what they found on their plates, they were to eat a few bites merely for politeness' sake, and then declare that they weren't hungry anymore. 'And I don't want to hear "Yuck" or "Eeew" or "Gross",' she'd instructed them.

Fortunately, her attempt at last-minute education didn't have to pass the reality test, because when they'd all sat down, Lucius announced, 'Since this is a special occasion, I thought that everybody might want to order their favourite food.'

Everybody's faces lit up. Hugo, slightly puzzled that Evil Wizards allowed their guests to eat whatever they wanted, nevertheless grinned broadly.

Speaking to the children, who were all seated to his left with Rose in the middle, flanked by the two boys, Lucius continued, 'A word of warning, though. What you order, you eat. Painful experience' – he glanced sharply at his grandson, who blushed – 'tells us that a bullfrog filled with live spiders, while quite the eye-catching dish, should not be ordered unless you feel a sudden craving for arachnoids.'

'Gross!' Rose breathed.

Hermione glared at her.

Lucius drew his wand. Hugo flinched. 'Just tap your wand against the rim of your plate and pronounce the name of the dish you would like to eat.'

'Anything?' Rose asked.

'We might be a little short on tripe-'

'Eeeew!' Rose said, immune to her mother's glare.

'- and nightingale's livers seem to be out of season-'

'Yuck!' Rose squeaked.

'- but otherwise you may order to your heart's content.'

'Can we swap?' Hugo asked with a dreamy look that told his mother about the complicated transactions taking shape in his head.

'Of course,' Lucius said, 'If your partner is willing.' He leaned towards Hermione. The chorus of children's voices currently engaged in hardcore haggling that would have put bazaar merchants to shame made it unnecessary to lower his voice. 'Your son has a Slytherin streak a mile wide,' he said.

She smiled at him. 'He told me – in the strictest confidence of course – that the Sorting Hat had a mind to put him in Slytherin. Of course he refused. He's very much his father's boy, you know.'

'I see. Sometimes…' He hesitated. 'I think Scorpius would have been happier in Ravenclaw.'

'Was that an option?'

'Oh, yes. He told me, during last year's Christmas holidays.'

'That's what I call a vote of confidence,' she said.

'That's what grandfathers are for. If they've learned from their mistakes.'

The hullabaloo on the other side of the table had come to a temporary stop, and Hermione watched attentively as the children drew their wands and tapped the sides of their plates. Scorpius ordered Spareribs, Hugo a double Hamburger with an extra helping of French fries, and Rose, a devious grin on her face, asked for grilled salmon with new potatoes.

'But… but…' Hugo spluttered. 'You said you were going-'

'I changed my mind.'

'But I hate fish!'

'I know,' Rose said triumphantly. 'That was the bloody point, you see.'

When Lucius had recovered from his coughing fit, and Hermione had dispensed motherly admonitions concerning language, table manners and the use of cutlery – although she silently agreed with Hugo; French fries _did_ taste better if eaten with your fingers – the two adults could finally order their food, and peace returned.

Hugo's swapping strategies were a lot more successful at dessert, because he'd banked on his sister having forgotten that he disliked semolina pudding almost as much as he hated fish. But he only filched a little bit of Rose's chocolate soufflé – nobility played a lesser part in this decision than a full stomach, his mother thought – and then the children trudged off sleepily, an equally drowsy Vanilla in tow, and Lucius and Hermione retreated to the library for coffee and a small brandy, purely for medical purposes.

The elves had lit a huge fire in the fireplace, and Hermione sank down on the couch, feeling sated and very happy. She dimly remembered that there'd always been two couches in front of the hearth, but was too full and too lethargic to pursue the matter. Lucius sat down next to her and handed her a cup of black coffee. He was very close, and so it seemed quite natural for her head to slide down a bit, and then a bit more, until it came to rest on his shoulder. She felt his arm settle around her shoulders and gave a contented little sigh. When his hand began to stroke small circles up and down her arm, Hermione snuggled closer, her eyes still shut tight, unwilling to break the spell that seemed to have encompassed them both.

She wanted so badly to kiss him – if she concentrated hard enough, surely that thought must pass from her head into his, seeing as their heads were almost touching…

Hermione heard the soft clink of a coffee cup being levitated onto the table, and then felt her own cup being taken from her hand. Eyes still closed, she tilted her head slightly upwards. The arm around her shoulders tightened its hold, and she shuddered, when she sensed his other hand cupping her jaw. The room was so quiet, even the flames seemed to have muted their crackling. She could hear his hair swish over his robes as he shifted slightly and bent his head. The pulse in her throat was beating wildly against his hand.

She only realized that she'd been holding her breath when his mouth touched hers and she finally exhaled. She felt him smile against her lips.

'Kiss me,' Hermione whispered.

'Only if you open your eyes.'

She blinked at him and smiled. 'I'm a bit out of practice, probably.'

'Oh, I don't think so. It's like riding a broom.'

'Pity,' she said.

oooooo


	5. Chapter 5

Although kissing Lucius was nothing like riding a broomstick, riding a broomstick was still very much like riding a broomstick, as Hermione found out later in the afternoon.

After a solid fifteen minutes of kissing, they'd decided to give it a break. None of them wanted to be surprised by the children barging into the library, and Lucius persuaded her to stay for dinner, there would be just the two of them, and a bit of after-dinner kissing. If his plan failed, he told himself, he'd still have the satisfaction of snogging his future wife.

Lucius had just summoned a heavy tome containing a synopsis of French and English medieval wizarding law, which Hermione was curious to study, when they were interrupted by the sound of polite but urgent knocking. The three children trooped into the room, Rose still carrying Vanilla, who was sleeping peacefully in the crook of her arm.

'Grandfather, can we go out and play Quidditch?'

Hermione's stomach sank. She knew, of course, that learning to fly was part of the Hogwarts curriculum, and that both her children were extremely fond of it, but as long as she didn't have to watch, she managed to ignore the thought, most of the time.

Rose correctly interpreted the expression on her mother's face. 'See?' she said to Scorpius, 'I told you. Mum's afraid of flying, and she won't allow us to do it.'

Lucius was looking at her with an amused smirk. 'Is that so?' he asked. 'I begin to understand why certain metaphors don't appeal to you.'

Hermione cleared her throat, aware that she was blushing. 'Do you allow Scorpius to fly?'

'Of course. Only with my explicit permission, though, and only if I'm with him.'

'Oh.' She bit her lip. She loved her children, and if they were in any danger, she'd probably hop on a broomstick (if only to drop on the creature that was threatening them). She might of course delegate the task of supervising them to Lucius, but that would be irresponsible, and moreover it would rob her of his company. 'Well, I,' she began, unsure how to continue.

'If I may propose a compromise,' Lucius cut in smoothly. 'I'll take a few safety precautions and, unless you absolutely refuse to get airborne, you might join me on my broomstick, so we may survey the children together.'

On a broomstick, with Lucius. The possibilities… Hermione's mind boggled. Her throat had gone a bit dry, and so she said hoarsely, 'That's an excellent idea.'

The children ran off to change into outdoor clothes. Lucius and Hermione stared at each other. Both raised their wands. 'I'll do you,' Hermione said, 'If you do me.'

'I'm sure,' Lucius said after a short pause of disbelief, 'that these venerable walls have never been party to a Malfoy being propositioned in such a, well, frank fashion.'

'What – Oh!' Unsure whether to laugh or run, Hermione opted for laughter. 'I didn't mean it that way, and you know it!'

'Pity,' he said, and smirked at her.

She paid him back by giving him fluffy, pink earmuffs, which he had some trouble removing. To his relief, he succeeded before the children returned.

The party of five marched through the park with its bare trees and evergreen hedges and further on into the open grounds. 'That will do,' Lucius said and drew his wand. 'Wait,' he called to Scorpius, who was already sitting on his broom.

Obediently, Scorpius dismounted.

Lucius raised his wand, and a silvery Patronus burst from its tip. Once it touched the ground, it scuttled off. 'Not a word,' Lucius said through clenched teeth.

'A… platypus?' Hermione giggled. 'That's, erm, unusual.'

'Very delicately phrased,' he answered dryly, his eyes on the Patronus, which he was directing with his wand. It left a silvery trail in the shape of a large rectangle. A few complicated wand movements and silent spells later, the ground enclosed by the glimmering rectangle had been cushioned, and an invisible barrier made sure that the flyers were unable to leave the protected area. 'Just the Quaffle and the Snitch,' Lucius said, when a House Elf appeared with the wooden box holding the balls.

Rose looked slightly disappointed. 'I'm a very good Beater.'

'I'm sure you are, Miss Weasley. Show a little consideration for your mother's nerves, though.' He conjured two hoops on opposite sides of the makeshift field and released the Snitch. Within two seconds, the children had jumped on their broomsticks and kicked off the ground.

Lucius turned to Hermione. 'Would you like to sit in front or behind me? Both positions have their undeniable advantages.'

In her growing anxiety, Hermione almost missed the double entendre. 'I think I'd like you to be behind me.' His eyebrows rose. 'Stop that,' she said, half-laughing. 'You'll be able to catch me more easily if I fall off.'

He'd been right, though. Increased safety wasn't the only perk of riding in front of him, with one arm wrapped tightly around her waist. She could sense the warmth of his body seeping into her back through his heavy winter attire, and the movement of his arm muscles against her torso. His thighs enclosed hers, and she felt his cheek warm against hers. All the same, her whole body stiffened when he kicked off. 'Relax,' he murmured into her ear. The hand holding her close to his body stroked her waist. 'Just move with me' – he swerved to the left and pulled her with him as he leaned over – 'yes, like this. And you'll see, it's not as bad as you think.'

oooooo

After three hours of playing Quidditch – the sun had already set, but Hermione had conjured her trademark spheres of blue light to illuminate the pitch – Lucius firmly pronounced that it was time to go back to the House for a very late afternoon-tea-cum-dinner. The children were eating ravenously, whereas Lucius and Hermione merely had a few nibbles with their tea, saving their hunger for the diner à deux later on. Hugo was fast asleep after twenty minutes, a half-eaten sandwich still dangling from his hand. Scorpius's eyelids were drooping, and Rose's yawns threatened to unhinge her jaw.

'Bed, I think,' Hermione said. Nobody protested. She rose to pick up her sleeping son. He didn't wake up and merely grumbled in his sleep.

Lucius extended his hands towards his grandson and Rose, who had squeezed themselves into one armchair. 'Can she sleep in my room?' Scorpius asked, stumbling up the stairs next to his grandfather.

'I don't think that would be appropriate. You'll be together all day tomorrow, and the day after that. Spending the night together seems a trifle exaggerated.'

'What if I have a bad dream?' Rose protested feebly.

'Vanilla will be keeping you company,' Lucius said. 'A Kneazle on your pillow is as good as an amulet against nightmares.'

'Really?'

'Really.' They stopped in front of Scorpius's room. Lucius tousled his hair and gently shoved him towards the door. 'You will lend Vanilla to Miss Weasley, Scorpius?'

The boy blinked. 'Yes, she can stay with Rose. If I have a nightmare, I'll just go to your room and wake you up. Don't forget to drop the wards, please.'

Since Rose was nodding off while her mother undressed her, Hermione decided that, just this once, the children would have to sleep without previously cleaning their teeth. After a last look into Hugo's room, she finally went downstairs.

Lucius was waiting for her in the dining room. 'Hungry?' he asked.

'You have no idea.' She rose on tiptoes. 'A kiss would be welcome, though.'

They kissed, and then sat down. More kisses followed after they'd finished their starters. The wine didn't make her half as drunk as those slow, deep, languorous kisses, Hermione thought.

Twinky had just served the main course, when thunderous blows against the entrance door made the glass ornaments of the chandelier tinkle against each other.

Hermione frowned. 'What was that? You don't have a poltergeist, do you?'

'Nothing as harmless as that, I'm afraid,' Lucius murmured and got up. 'If you'll excuse me… I'll be back in a minute.'

Shrugging, Hermione took up her fork and knife to cut a piece off her Beef Wellington, whose pleasant aroma was tickling her nose. She jumped, when another round of violent knocking resounded through the house. 'What the…' she muttered to herself, wanting to go out and have a look, but feeling that she'd better stay put and let Lucius deal with whoever was disturbing the domestic peace.

The dining room and entrance hall were on opposite sides of the house, but nevertheless she could hear the sound of raised voices. Somebody shouted 'Expelliarmus!', there was a bang, and then silence.

Hermione shook her head. If she didn't know better, she'd think that voice belonged to… Wand at the ready, she left the dining room at a run and arrived just in time to see her husband binding Lucius to a chair with a length of rope he'd conjured. He twiddled Lucius's wand between his fingers.

'Keep it down, Malfoy,' he said, stepping so close to Lucius that he was almost standing on his toes. 'You wouldn't want ickle Scorpius to wake up, now would you?'

'If I were you, Auror Weasley, I wouldn't want my children to wake up and witness me breaking and entering.'

Hermione stood rooted to the spot, hidden from the group of Aurors by the marble statue of some Malfoy ancestor, barely able to believe that the scene unfolding before her eyes was real.

'Let my children be my concern, Malfoy. Long time no see, eh? Now tell me about the Dark Artefacts.'

'There are no Dark Artefacts in this house,' Lucius growled. 'I have told you repeatedly that the Malfoy collection has been transferred to the family vault at Gringotts, which may only be entered by a Malfoy.'

Ron tsk-ed. 'But that was half a year ago, Malfoy. How can we be sure that you haven't smuggled them back here in the meantime?'

Lucius merely shook his head and looked away.

'I asked you a question, Malfoy.'

He'd already raised his wand and pointed it at Lucius, when Hermione stepped out from behind the statue. 'Auror Weasley,' she called, 'May I see your search warrant?'

Ron froze. 'Hermione? How come you're still here? You were supposed to-'

'Answer my question, Auror Weasley. Where is your search warrant? Show it, this instant.'

'Look, Hermione, you know bloody well that I don't have-'

He fell silent rather abruptly when she raised her left hand. 'For the last time, Auror Weasley. Show me your search warrant.'

Ron took in her pale face and rigid posture and decided that this was not the right moment to start an argument with his wife. 'All right,' he said to the five Aurors who'd retreated towards the door, 'let's go, lads. It seems we're out of luck tonight.'

Fighting the urge to fire a nasty hex at him, Hermione shook her head. 'You are going nowhere, Auror Weasley. At least not the way you think.' Their eyes met for a brief instant, and she thought she saw a flash of comprehension dawn in his gaze. 'Auror Weasley, Auror Rivers, Auror Singh, Auror Beaversley, Auror Hamilton, Auror Zamboni, you are under arrest for trespassing on private property without a search warrant. You are further under arrest for taking away a British wizard's right to free movement and carrying a wand, without having an arrest warrant or the need to act in self-defence. Incarcerum!' She pointed her wand at the group, who suddenly found themselves bound tightly by shimmering golden cords. 'Expeditio auctoritatem!' At this second spell, the six Aurors vanished.

Hermione leaned against the wall, panting heavily. 'I think,' she said, when she'd regained her breath, 'I might be in need of a good divorce lawyer. Finite Incantatem!' The ropes binding Lucius fell away, and she handed him his wand, which had flown from Ron's hand the moment she'd pronounced the spell that effectively arrested him.

Lucius cleared his throat. 'You, er, just arrested your own husband.'

'That's why I need the bloody lawyer,' she snarled.

oooooo

After checking on the three children, who had heard nothing and were still sleeping peacefully, Lucius retired to his study. He was pretending to be reading, because he hated to admit to himself that he was anxiously waiting for Hermione's return.

Arresting people always meant a lot of paperwork, and so she'd merely kissed him goodbye before she Apparated to her office, in order to get done with the administrative aspect of having taken her husband into custody as soon as possible. 'I'll come back though,' she'd said, squeezing his arm. 'If you want me to, of course.'

Still unable to believe his luck, Lucius had merely nodded.

'Are you sure?' she'd asked, frowning up at him.

'Yes, of course. Forgive me, I'm still feeling slightly dazed.'

That had been an hour ago. Much as Lucius wanted her to come back, he was also aware that there was nothing like a bit of tedious paperwork to help one calm down. A calm Hermione, though, was a frighteningly rational Hermione. A Hermione with an intellect as sharp as a razor, which cut right to the core of every problem. If she found out… Lucius shut the book with a thud and decided to have some brandy instead. Not that he wanted to get drunk – if she asked him as many questions as he expected her to, he'd need to be sober – but he reckoned that a small amount of brandy might help him calm down.

He'd just poured some into a large snifter and taken the first sip, when he heard the telltale crack of Apparition. A moment later the main door closed. Lucius straightened his shoulders and left his study to meet the Soon-To-Be-Ex Mrs Weasley. The chances of that happening had increased dramatically during the last couple of hours. He wasn't quite sure about his own chances, though. Being six feet under suddenly didn't seem all that bad.

'Everything sorted out,' she announced briskly and kissed his cheek.

Lucius allowed himself to relax marginally. 'I'm glad to hear it.' He slipped an arm around her shoulders. She didn't flinch away, but leaned into him. 'And I am very happy to have you back.'

'Well' – her arm sneaked around his waist – 'right now, I can't see why I ought to go home. My children are here, you are here, and I've managed to wreck whatever remained of my marriage. So why not go all the way?'

'All the way?' he echoed. 'Does that mean what I think it does?'

She stopped and turned to face him. 'Lucius, I've been fantasizing about you for two months. Every day. What do you think it means?'

'Er…'

'Exactly. But it doesn't seem quite fair to let me do all the work. I've just single-handedly destroyed my marriage, so would it be too much if I asked you to at least drag me to your bedroom and have your way with me?'

'That,' he said, sweeping her up and into his arms, 'was a lot more elegant than "I'll do you if you do me"!'

oooooo

Hermione's adrenaline-fuelled bravado lasted until he'd put her down and secured the bedroom door with a few spells.

She looked at the large bed with its intricately carved frame and landscape of snow-white linen, and then at Lucius, and then back to the bed. How many women had he slept with here? Valiantly though she tried to shake off the memory, the words 'frigid cow' persistently echoed in her mind. True, she'd managed a few rather spectacular solo rides these days, with Lucius as her imaginary lover, but in her fantasies he'd always anticipated her needs – the real thing would be different, she'd have to tell him… What if she'd really become frigid? Her skills at faking orgasms had developed remarkably over the years, but she didn't want it to be like that, not with Lucius.

'I don't think I can do this,' she said.

'Can or want to?' he asked, stepping a little closer.

'Can, definitely. And don't tell me it's like riding a broom.'

'A lot simpler,' he said, encircling her loosely with his arms, 'and a lot more complex. Much more dangerous. But also much more pleasant.'

Hermione let her head fall against his chest. 'It's stupid, really.'

'I'd rather describe it as a bad case of stage nerves.' He kissed her forehead and stepped back. 'Why don't we just go to sleep and leave the important decisions for tomorrow?'

'That sounds nice. I haven't brought anything, though.'

'That should be easily remedied,' he said and snapped his fingers.

After a nice, long bath Hermione slipped into the dark blue silk pyjamas Lucius had adjusted to fit her. The bed was still empty when she re-entered the bedroom. There was a fire burning in the grate, but she shivered slightly. Once she'd made herself comfortable under the covers, though, she felt the warmth return to her body. With the warmth came desire, and she thought that maybe her retreat had been a bit premature.

Then the door on the other side opened, and she could see Lucius's silhouette against the bright, yellow light from his bathroom. 'Are you in bed already?' he asked.

She nodded, unaware that he couldn't see the movement in the darkness of the bedroom.

'Hermione?'

'Yes, I'm here. You ought to come too, it's very cosy.'

He extinguished the lights in the bathroom with a flick of his wand and walked over to the bed. Hermione's breath hitched when she felt the mattress dip under his weight. Maybe she ought to have listened to the voice of reason and gone home? There was a rustle of fabric, and suddenly his voice was very near. 'Cosy indeed. Was everything to your satisfaction?'

'Y-yes. And thanks for the pyjamas.'

'You are most welcome.'

Hermione decided to ignore the insistent protests of certain parts of her body and go for the safe solution instead. 'Good night,' she said.

Lucius reached for her hand, found it and squeezed gently. 'Good night.' He pressed a kiss on the palm. Then another one on her wrist. Then he pushed up her sleeve and kissed the inside of her elbow.

She had intended to stay quiet, but that last kiss elicited a low moan. It was followed by an entirely intentional moan, when his tongue glided over the same sensitive spot.

'Mmmh,' he purred, 'Cinnamon.'

She'd hesitated between the cinnamon and lavender bath oil. Lavender had seemed more sober and hence appropriate for a platonic night's sleep, but the realization that she'd smell like her grandmother's underwear cupboard had prompted her to go for cinnamon instead. Since the night didn't seem to have any intention to remain platonic, though, she had likely made the right choice.

After a few seconds of careful consultation with various body parts, Hermione moved closer to Lucius' shadowy form. Their mouths met in a somewhat clumsy kiss, for they had misjudged each other's position. But then she scooted even closer, and felt his leg slide across her thigh. The next kiss was a lot more satisfactory. 'You shaved,' she said, when they had to come up for air.

'I'm an incurable optimist,' he replied, opening the topmost button of her pyjama top. More buttons followed, and then she felt his mouth descend from her jaw, down her throat and over her breast. His tongue stroked her nipple, and then his lips closed around it in a slow, suckling motion.

For a while she was unable to do anything but moan and whimper and thrust her breasts into his mouth.

'I think,' Lucius said, pressing a kiss on each nipple, 'that a silencing spell might be a good idea.'

Hermione lay back in the pillows and watched the blue glow of the spell wrap itself around the room. It intensified briefly, and then sank into the walls and ceiling. It was only the two of them now, nobody else could hear her. If she was unable now to tell him what she wanted, she'd never get over her inhibitions, she was sure. 'Lucius,' she said, 'I, erm, I really want to make love, but right now I'm not feeling very adventurous. I want to just relax and let you do all the work.'

'That is perfectly all right,' he said amiably.

When the first light of dawn crept up on the hills of Wiltshire, she was kneeling astride his legs, coaxing his cock to hesitant attention.

Lucius raised a feeble arm and squeezed her bum. 'Don't you need any sleep at all?'

Hermione grinned down at him. 'I'm so tired, I could sleep for months. But your cock just begs for reanimation.'

'Hermione, dear, this cock has gone through so many reanimations already – if it were a Buddhist cock, it would go straight to nirvana.'

'That's exactly where it's going,' she replied, lowering herself.

oooooo

Lucius woke with the distinct feeling that somebody was staring at him. When he opened his eyes, Hermione's face was a mere two inches from his.

'You planned this, didn't you?' she asked, poking his chest with a surprisingly sharp forefinger.

Had he been an uninvolved bystander, he would have awarded her points for tackling him at a most vulnerable moment. He was anything but, though, and so he tried to gather whatever remained of his wits, after she'd shagged them out of him. 'Planned what?'

'Everything. Coming to my office with Vanilla, the invitations, maybe even Rose and Scorpius. You'd better confess,' she added threateningly.

'What if I do?' he asked, realizing that this was not one of his finer moments.

'That depends. If I like your explanation, you might still have a chance.'

Lucius threw an arm across his face. He ought to have ordered the bloody coffin, he knew it. At least he'd stand a chance at a decent funeral once she was done with him. As things were, she'd probably throw his dead body into the lake. 'You're never going to believe me,' he muttered.

Hermione snorted. 'Try me.'

oooooo

The French doors remained closed, and a fire was burning on the grate, to ward off the chill of a drizzly September morning. The house was blissfully quiet – Scorpius had spent the summer holidays at the Manor, as usual, and for the last three weeks Rose and Hugo had joined him.

Lucius poured himself a cup of coffee and started to read the Daily Prophet's sports section. The more interesting part of the newspaper was waiting for his wife, neatly folded next to her plate. He'd given up fighting for it – she had to leave for work at half past eight anyway, and so he'd just read it later. Not today, though. Today was Sunday, and Hermione didn't have to work. Lucius smiled at the memory of their rather vigorous morning shag and buttered a piece of toast. He did like married life, even though he didn't get to read the important news before half past eight.

The door opened, and Hermione entered the room. She had the same contented look Vanilla wore when she'd successfully outmanoeuvred the House Elves and eaten the Beluga caviar. 'You did that on purpose,' she said, pointing at a love bite at the base of her throat while sitting down.

JUST POPPING IN TO CHECK ON YOU, LUCIUS MALFOY.

Lucius jumped. 'That, erm, wasn't really necessary.'

'Of course it wasn't,' Hermione said, 'That's why I said you did it on purpose.'

ARE YOU ENJOYING MARRIED LIFE?

'Yes, I, er, it's very pleasurable,' Lucius said.

'I know. I like it too, but you know we have guests tonight.'

NO TROUBLE IN PARADISE? NO THOUGHTS OF DIVORCE?

Lucius snorted. 'You must be joking.'

'No, I'm not. We've been planning this dinner for weeks, I can't believe you forgot.'

THE NEW MRS MALFOY SEEMS TO BE QUITE A HANDFUL.

'I'm barely past my prime.'

'I know, darling, but perhaps too much sex is bad for your memory?'

I'LL LEAVE YOU TO IT, THEN. SEE YOU IN SEVENTY-SEVEN YEARS AND THREE WEEKS.

'Maybe. Don't get your hopes up, though. Coming quietly isn't my style.'

Hermione grinned. 'It certainly isn't.'

FINIS


End file.
